The Horse Keeper Read online

  He rolled over onto his back and watched in despair as the boys pulled back, still firing. One of them tried to pull him up by his arm, but fell backwards as a hail of musket fire swept up the slope, like tiny messengers of sudden pain and death. He could see the union boys moving forward and suddenly they were all about him, firing and cursing with demented anger at their tormentors and the faceless demons of war who had put them there. Wayne was now being trampled into the mud as the union boys moved up the slope in block. Once again he could hear the chant of, LEE! LEE! LEE! And a deafening barrage of musket fire and roar of cannon fire came flying back down. Decapitated bodies flew into the air and the groans of the dying sounded like a distant lonely lament. Still the union boys tried to press on and the bodies piled up all around and on top of Wayne until he felt that he was suffocating with the sheer weight. He could feel their warm blood soaking his hair and clothing, then running down his chest. He could smell their musky, sweat stained clothing, which seemed to imply to him, ‘we smell and bleed just like you Johnnie reb.’ Then he slowly slipped into oblivion with the distant chant of, LEE! LEE! LEE! Still accompanying him.

  He had woken up the next day in a field hospital, his right leg swathed in bandages. In the next bed to his, an old timer had been watching him intently as he came round, his own head covered in bloody bandages. Wayne clearly remembered his words.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living boy, remember what happened to yah.”

  Vaguely, Yankee bullet caught me in the leg,” Wayne had replied.

  “Watched them pull yah out after we knocked ‘em back, for getting hit meself.”

  “Can remember being in one hellova fight, but don’t know what happened.”

  “Yah boys did real good, stopped the Federals in their tracks with that bayonet charge… Gave us nuff time tah rally, put another line of defence at back, for sending help to yah… How many was there in yah company?” asked the old timer, while leaning over.

  “Four hundred and twenty at the last count,” said Wayne.

  “Wow, heard yah lost hundred and seventy boys… There’re talk ‘bout the rest of yah’s being merged into three corps and five corps. Damned injustice, your boys deserve better.” Even the old man asked what corps was that down there fighting like wildcats. “Ha, ha, ha, some of the boys had to pull him off his horse and drag him to the rear to stop him riding down. Ha, ha, ha, big, strong fella for an old un, took four boys built like barns to carry him off, kickin, and bucking like a damn mule.”

  Wayne could still hear the chants of, LEE! LEE! Ringing around inside his head. The old timer leaned further over towards Wayne and began to speak more seriously.

  “Mah buddy tells me that he’s hearin from some of the Federal prisoners that they are angry at there own command ‘bout the attack… Rumours flyin’ ‘bout they lost over seven thousand boys in the first half-hour round the horseshoe alone. Over twelve thousand in all, with the other assaults along the line, worse than us at Gettysburg…”

  “How many did we lose…?” asked Wayne.

  “Think ‘bout two or three thousand, not sure yet, I’ll ask mah Buddy.”

  The old timers estimate about the casualties had been quite accurate and most of Wayne’s company became merged into five corps who had also sustained heavy losses.

  Wayne had plenty of time on his hands now, to think, remember and digest all that had happened to him in four terrible, lonely years. Loneliness to Wayne was nothing new. He had always been a loner by nature, preferring the company of his beautiful beasts, than that of the complicated and irrational ways of his fellow man. It was not that he disliked or distrusted his fellow man, it was just the way he had been born. The only person he had actually disliked in his life was his older brother, Wyatt. But now Wyatt was dead, he was killed at Shiloh and Wayne had deeply regretted not getting to know his bookish, gawky brother who hated working on the farm with a vengeance.

  Then, three months before war finally broke out when General Beauregard fired on Fort Sumter, Wayne’s opinion of Wyatt had changed dramatically. Wyatt had changed from a sheepish bookworm to a fantastic, mysterious character to Wayne. It was the only thing that could bring bitter tears to his eyes as he lay on his bunk at night. He would turn it over and over in his mind – Why had he not tried to get to know Wyatt better? What on earth had inspired him to do the most audacious, daring, suicidal and foolish folly, was completely beyond Wayne’s comprehension. Why? Why? Why?

  Of all the unlikely people to hoodwink and humiliate the tyrannical and terrifying Ben Boucher, the biggest plantation owner in the county, it had been Wyatt, meek, mild Wyatt. And Wayne had thanked God everyday afterwards that he had been the only one to know. Even Wyatt did not know that Wayne knew. And if he had been found out, it would have been certain disaster for the whole family. When the news had erupted like a wrathful thunderstorm, every man in the town, from big, brawny plantation hand, to storekeeper had trembled in their boots. Everybody knew about old man Boucher’s temper, even over the most trivial slight. But whoever had done this outrage against him, must have been either mad or willing to be horsewhipped to death for something they vehemently believed in. As brothers they could not have been more different. Wayne had inherited his father’s Irish good looks. Thick, corn blond hair, sky blue eyes and five feet ten powerful frame. But before him came Wyatt. Oh Wyatt.

  Before the war life had been good for Wayne. From a young age he had fallen into work around his father’s smallholding quite naturally and his father had coaxed and nurtured his obvious love for horses. They had never been rich, but the little corn, potatoes and cotton they grew in there compact but fertile fields had tided them over quite well. Pat Rawlins had always had a strong inclination to keep horses and to sell them, and his stables had become somewhat of a sideline. He would also buy horses that were brought to him by a mysterious and frugal old timer named Bill Harding.

  Harding would ride onto the ranch some afternoons after weeks of tracking wild horses in the wild and let Pat take a look at them.

  Wayne could remember that these meetings had always been cordial and after Pat had chosen the ones that he wanted, he would pay Harding for them and they would chat for a while. Wayne would eavesdrop on their conversations and would become intrigued and enchanted by Bill Harding’s stories.

  Harding had become Wayne’s first hero, and in his young boy’s adventurous mind he wanted to become just like him, living wild and free. Of course the hardship and sometimes-fruitless expeditions had not really occurred to Wayne at the age of ten. But the seed of an innermost desire had been planted and quite unintentionally watered.

  Then when Wayne had turned sixteen Harding’s visits had become less frequent, because of old age and not being able to keep up with his rough life. But he would still visit once or twice a year and as Wayne passed his eighteenth birthday, he had told Pat a story that would haunt Wayne like a mysterious dream. It was another episode in his pre war life that he would recall fondly, wishing he could recapture it with longing.

  Harding had told Pat that for the past couple of years he had being tracking a wild bunch of the most magnificent horses that he had ever seen, possibly about a hundred or so. Tracking was as far as he had got, because every time he had got close they had escaped, or rather vanished. Harding had never believed the old Indian legend about the region; regarding a wild bunch of horses that would lead anybody that could actually keep in contact with them to their happy hunting ground. Harding was an old stalwart and pragmatist, who had never had any time for such fancies. All he could tell Pat was that the whole area above and between the Mississippi and Yazoo rivers, above Vicksburg was prone to flooding and a devil of a place to track horses. And definitely not a place to stay for a long time without adequate supplies. His last odyssey had been his hardest and by far the worst. He had been tracking them day and night after he had finally caught sight of them after weeks of searching. He had been moving through driving rain and fording invisib
le streams due to heavy flooding, sometimes floundering around with the head of his horse barely above water.

  Sometimes he would have to sleep in a hammock tied between two trees, because there had been no dry land in sight. He had finally lost track of them completely up near the Yalobusha River, close to some high ground and a large outcrop of tall, sheer rocks. This was ground, which the indigenous Indian regarded as sacred and forbidden. Harding had confessed that he had camped close by to them all night and in the morning they had just vanished without trace. But by this time he had been too exhausted and delirious with dysentery to carry on looking for them. Wayne knew that his father had trusted Harding, and when it became apparent that he could not clear this particular story from his head, he told Pat of his wishes. His only escape and refuge from the terrible thoughts, dreams and pain of the past four years had been to reflect on this period, three years before war was declared. And he would savour this in the early hours, just before dawn.

  CHAPTER 3

  Whispers of a delta breeze. May 1858.

  It had been plaguing and nagging at him all day, as it had done for weeks, and as Wayne crossed the yard, sat in the porch and kicked off his boots, he could not hold it back any longer. He had to do it and get this bug out of his system.

  “Pa… The old yarn that Harding used to tell ‘bout that elusive herd o hosses down over the delta… Well, doyah believe it? I mean he never caught one as proof.”

  Pat, who was leaning on the porch, smoking his pipe and gazing out over to the distant mountains quietly pondered Wayne’s words and eventually answered.

  “Well son, ole’ Harding never sold me a bad hoss in over twenty years. Can’t say that I understand the old bull, but he ain’t the kinda dude that frequents saloons and brags ‘bout his business… Yeh son, bleeve must be some truth in it, some truth.”

  “Well Pa, been workin’ hard all week, got most of the jobs outa the way… nough hay and water for the hosses for ten or twelve days… Been thinkin’ for some time to go and take a look for maself… Pa, I just can’t git this outa ma head, don’t understand it…”

  Pat looked down towards him smiling wryly and blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

  “I know son, I know somethins’ bin on yah mind for some time. Had a hunch it might of bin that. Coz I was watchin’ yah face all those years ago when Harding told the story. If I was young agin and didn’t have to care for yah Ma, I would probably wanna go and look for ‘em maself. I would wanna’ come with yah as well, but yah know I can’t son.”

  Mary Rawlins who had been standing in the doorway unnoticed by them both said, “Wayne, the ideas yah get in that head o yours, ole Harding is a dreamer with no responsibilities or ties. Yah shouldn’t o listened to him too much.”

  They both turned to face Mary, whose face was yellow and drawn, indicating the final stages of tuberculosis and typhoid and Pat spoke first.

  “Let him go Mary, I can take care things round here for a couple o weeks, besides I’ve always been interested in that particular yarn maself, I even told yah, years ago.”

  “Pity yah’s don’t wanna study like Wyatt, Wayne, he’s gonna be a teacher one day and leave all this farm life in his past, can’t blame him for that,” said Mary, almost piously.

  This was a real sore point with Wayne, and Mary had quite unwittingly touched his most sensitive nerve. He snapped at her angrily, with saliva bursting from his mouth.

  “What would Wyatt know about farm life Ma, he’s never lifted a pitchfork, ploughed a field, planted corn, reaped a harvest, broke a hoss, nothin’, nothin’, I spose you’d rather see me sittin’ with him ree-citen’ poetry with Tom Boucher like some damn fool fancy dude. Ma, me and Wyatt just ain’t the same, can’t you understand that…?”

  Pat interrupted and spoke in his customary calm, collective manner.

  “I said he can go Mary, the boy needs a change, to do something different.”

  Mary had the unfortunate trait that some mothers have, of being completely oblivious to what can only be perceived as favouritism by anybody else, made matters worse.

  “Wayne, I only want the best for both of you… By the way, I almost forgot. I saw Mary Lou in town today, she was askin’ ‘bout yah Wayne. Fine, fine family. Do so much for the community, good God fearing Christians, never miss a church service. Mary Lou would sure make a fine bride and daughter in-law.”

  By this time Wayne almost had steam blowing out of his ears. He was everything but what his mother thought he should be. Mary Lou was indeed a fine gal. So was Jesse Jo, so was Liz Cockburn, so were many other eligible gals in town. They sure did look fine in the white frocks and Sunday bonnets. But Wayne was simply not interested.

  Just as Wayne had begun to calm down, across the yard a shed door opened, or rather Wyatt’s study door. Wyatt emerged, adjusted his sight to the daylight, put his glasses on and walked towards them. His spindly legs, matchstick thin arms and painfully thin body made it look as though it was a task just for him to walk upright. From somewhere long back in the gene pools of his Irish forefathers and his German foremothers came Wyatt. Wayne, who had inherited everything from his father, other than patience and tolerance for somebody he deemed to be a damned fool remarked, “Well, well. He would sure make a damn fine scarecrow, if nothin’ else.”

  “Easy Wayne, yah Ma don’t need any more arguments now,” said Pat.

  “Okay Pa, I don’t wanna cause any trouble, but I can’t stand the worthless cuss.”

  With that he stood up and walked into the house, still grumbling and fuming.

  Two days later, in the early hours, Wayne mounted his favourite horse Long Horn and nudged the magnificent black beast into a canter. The sun had begun to peep over the distant mountains, like a red, benevolent eye. It felt good to be alive as the horse gently kicked up dust and expertly accommodated its powerful, yet tender master.

  Both Pat and Wayne knew that it was the best solution for him to get away from the farm for a while. They all knew Mary was dying, but Wayne’s understandable bad feelings towards Wyatt had reached boiling point. When Wayne had been sarcastic to the equally bookish and gawky Tom Boucher, the second son of the infamous Ben, Pat knew his son was becoming dangerously flippant. Wayne had thrown a stone through the window of Wyatt’s study when Wyatt and Tom Boucher were reciting poetry aloud and it had narrowly missed Tom’s head. Wayne actually preferred Tom’s older brother, John, who was in the same mould as his brutal, intolerant father. This was despite hearing awful tales of cruelty to the Boucher slaves by John from Wade Cockburn, who worked for them. Wayne believed Wade, because he knew John from his aloof and cold manner. And he knew that Wade only worked for the Boucher’s because extreme family poverty forced him to. Now Wayne was gratefully escaping from everything.

  Two days later he was overlooking the Yazoo and Mississippi Delta from the heights of Chickasaw Bluffs, surveying the same panoramic view as Bill Harding had done so many times before. He crossed the Yazoo River just north of the bluffs late in the afternoon and camped under a cluster of low slung pine trees. As he lit a fire and boiled coffee he realised that this was his true vocation, away from the complications and realities of society. The noise of grasshoppers, crickets and chirping of the delta birds was like music to his ears. As the sun went down and the wind began to whisper through the trees and across the lush and long delta grass and reeds, Wayne wondered at the beauty of it all and was overcome by a deep feeling of peace and tranquillity.

  His sleep had come in two and three-hour periods, the strange noises of the delta had disturbed him. Noises, which made him wonder what strange creatures of the night they belonged to. And as dawn broke and he stashed his blankets and pots away, the mixed feelings of anticipation and adventure overwhelmed him. The lush grass and abundant stretches of shallow water due to an abnormally rainy season, meant that Long Horn could graze and drink at his own leisure. And as Wayne saddled him and stroked his shiny black mane, he said as if he was confiding in him, “Well Lon
g, let’s see if we can find this band of ghost horses.”

  They were completely alone in the wild, with only the whispers of a delta breeze.

  Riding on the wind.

  Wayne had spent the next four days wandering around the areas of Sunflower River, Deer creek and Rolling fork. During this time it had slowly dawned on him that to search for horses, in particular horses whose whereabouts were far from certain, was a painstaking and difficult task.